He wrapped an arm around my waist, just holding me there in the soft, still air between us. Neither of us said another word as we turned out the lights, moved toward the bed, and climbed under the covers. It wasn’t about sex. Not tonight. It was something quieter. Stronger. A tether instead of a fire.
As I lay curled against him, his arm draped heavy and protective over my waist, I realized something:
We were building something. I couldn’t wait to see what we became.
The sound hit me first.
Even from behind the thick glass of the owner’s suite, the roar of the crowd rolled over my skin like a wave—electric, pulsing, alive. The stadium was packed, fans screaming, faces painted, jerseys in team colors flooding the stands like a crimson-and-blue tide.
Playoff energy wasn’t just different. It was primal.
And we were home.
I stood just behind the front row of the suite, arms crossed loosely as I scanned the rink, already tracking the players on the ice as they flew through warmups. Every sharp turn, every stop, every slap of blade to puck sent a shiver through the arena, and somewhere deep in my chest, it echoed.
I should have been exhausted. Two hours of sleep, max. A single cup of coffee on the way in. A to-do list longer than my arm. The press briefing I gave this morning already felt like it happened last week.
None of what happened before tonight mattered. This was the first game of the playoffs.
Everythingfrom this moment mattered now.
“Nice turnout,” Marchand murmured beside me, holding a tumbler of something probably older than I was. His suit was sharp, and his tie in team colors, of course, was bold. I’d nearly smiled when I noticed.
“We sold out in under four hours,” I said, cool and measured. “Merch sales spiked, too. Ticket bundles for rounds two and three already pushed capacity limits. If we advance, we’re golden.”
“When,” he said, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice. “Not if.”
A quiet laugh escaped me, despite myself. “You’d better knock on wood.”
He did—with one knuckle, against the edge of the bar behind us.
The suite was crowded tonight, and I knew nearly every person in it. Press, sponsors, a couple of league executives who made polite conversation but were clearly more interested in whether the Howlers could keep up the performance we’d delivered all season long. There was pressure in the air, disguised as small talk. I kept my posture open, my tone smooth, my game face firmly on.
The puck dropped five minutes later, and the temperature in the building spiked like someone had lit a match.
Roan dominated the first shift. Not flashy, he never played that way. He was always controlled, like he was the hinge the entire game swung on. Jay was pure speed, weaving through the defense with balletic precision. And Rhett… God. Rhett was fire.
He sprawled across the crease like a menace, pads slamming, crowd roaring.
Marchand took a slow sip of his drink. “That man is going to get fined.”
I didn’t bother to argue.
Because two minutes later, Rhett stacked the pads on a two-on-one, popped back up grinning, and launched the puck down the ice in a pass so filthy it set up Jay for a clean, effortless goal.
Just like that, we were up by one.
The crowdexploded. Fans jumped to their feet, the chant rolling through the arena like thunder—Howlers, Howlers, Howlers.
I didn’t sit. Couldn’t. My pulse was high and steady, my palms tingling. My gaze never left the ice.
It wasn’t just a game.
It was adeclaration.
This wasn’t about Rylan, or the Vultures, or whatever narrative the league thought it could spin. It wasn’t about gossip or scandal or smear tactics.
It was about the ice. The team.Us.
